


By My Will Alone

by dragonagemage



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Corypheus/Reader, Corypheus/You - Freeform, F/M, I wrote this sleep deprived after my fifth cup of coffee, Questioning Reality, blurring the lines between game and reality, please do not read if you are bothered by this, questionable darkspawn porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13315158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonagemage/pseuds/dragonagemage
Summary: Corypheus/Reader. If you let a story take root in your heart, how real can it become? The Inquisitor is but a mask, a necessity if you wish to be a part of that world, but the Conductor of the Choir of Silence sees through, even if you are worlds apart. He can see the reality of her who truly bears his Mark, and nothing shall stand in his way, not the Veil, not the Maker, until she is his. Even if it is in dreams, in the Fade, it is as real as you can imagine it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fourth-wall-breaking thing written in the small hours of the night after way too much caffeine. Corypheus/Inquisitor which becomes obvious Corypheus/Reader. Rated M for good reason. Contains questionable Cory/Reader explicit content (of dubious quality), which you probably came for; it's in Chapter 2. Enjoy responsibly.

Ideas have power. And so he, too, is an idea, and as such he takes root in your mind. Only there can he be free from the confines of the pre-written story, the Maker-decided world. You have been there, in the story, taking the shape of another, molding it, donning it like a sheep's skin. The crux of all things is the Fade. There you touched the Inquisitor-to-be, lent them _your_ life, _your_ decisions. A part of you entered, decided henceforth how the story will unfold. The inquisitor is an abomination - Trevelyan _and_ you. _Are you the same as you were before,_ Solas asked. _They_ weren't. They carried inside them _you._  
The Fade is where _he_ finds you, too.  
Only as an idea does he have the freedom to break the mold of the story. And that is all he is - bare will. _The will that is Corypheus._  
You begin to dream.  
Like in the story, you are wearing _her_ face, Trevelyan's. But this time he sees through it. It is in dreams where all three of you meet - _you_ are _her,_ but he sees through, sees _you,_ through her.  
You lose track of whether those are Trevelyan's dreams, or yours, in reality.  
Perhaps it does not matter - he is in all of them. And you wear her face. But he sees _you. Knows you by name._

You are in Haven, like many times before. You are in his grip, but for the first time, he looks at your eyes, and _sees you,_ while he grips the body of Trevelyan. He calls you by name, it is deep and resonating, it echoes somewhere within you and _you_ can see in his eyes that he's looking _through,_ looking at _you._  
You awake in cold sweat.

Is it possible to fall in love with a story, you wonder. To fall in love with an idea, give it a place in your mind and a part of you, so that it has a life of its own?  
_Isn't that what possession is?_  
You are frightened of the dreams, from then on. But you cannot stop wanting them.

_The will that is Corypheus._  
You are in his grasp, like countless times before, while around you Haven is burning.  
A long time after, you are lying in your bed at Skyhold. You are wearing Trevelyan's face.  
_Am I imagining this?_  
_Am I losing my mind, losing myself to a world of fantasy?_  
That's what the Fade is. Where your ideas have form. Dream your fantasies into being.  
And the Fade beckons you.  
Trevelyan's dreams are your dreams. You no longer wear her, you are her, whenever you wish.  
_I am dreaming._  
But at the back of your mind, you feel the caress of the idea you've given life to. By imagining it alive, you are giving it life. Dream your reality into being.  
_Have I lost my mind? Am I possessed?_  
It's a story. And like any good storyteller, you'll remain faithful to the characterization.

It's perfectly normal. Except, a part of you is telling you it _isn't._  
It's extraordinary.  
_I have touched the true Fade._  
Where ideas have life - our imagination - anything can be, right?  
The Fade beckons you, and you thread it with purpose.  
It is as real as I can imagine it.

Haven burns around you.  
_'You are here at last.'_  
You look to the monster approaching through the flame, and you are not afraid.  
"The Conductor of the Choir of Silence," you greet him. "High Priest of Dumat."  
His eyes blaze with anger, and something more.  
'No longer. My victory will be for myself.'

You stride up to him, mark flaring - connecting you. You _feel_ him through it, feel him as you could never explain, not in a million words; past and present and yearning and plans, fears and shadows and _an indomitable will._  
The mark was meant to be emblazoned into his own skin, tailored to him, so much of himself was poured into it.  
Instead, it is on you.  
You are marked, you realized, singled out by a blazing sigil among thousands, as _Corypheus'._ You bear his mark on your very skin.  
He reaches out, and it flares to life, eager to reunite with him, eager to rejoin the whole. You are pulled along with it, and your palm lays flat against his.  
The things you feel...you wake up, catching your breath.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weird fade-sex of questionable quality that literally no one asked for.

The third time you meet him, and he sees you for _you,_ is atop of what you believe to be a shrine of Dumat. The sky above you is dark, the clawed metal of the altar reaches upwards towards the stormclouds; and on the other side of the altar, devouring you with his eyes, is Corypheus.  
You reach out, and he responds, but there are no threats or anger or any hateful promise. You just _respond,_ to the Mark and to him, and next you are simply enveloped, held in his claws so gingerly like a diamond about to fall to dust and ruin. His embrace brings _heat_ and _life_ and you feel like this is _right,_ any part of you that would claim otherwise suppressed and silent. It is easy to turn your face upwards, to capture the magister's scarred lips under yours. So that is what you do.

He tastes of blood and metal, the sharp and sickly sweet taste of lyrium, and the heat of magic. Magic that is _him,_ beyond any doubt. His clawed hands run down your body; disproportionate to his so that you feel frail, but you know there is no safer place for you to be in all the world than with _him._ With a bright green shimmer of magic, you are divested of your garments; like a million butterflies that flutter to nothing, you are bare against the skin and metal and lyrium. But it matters little, all of it, because it is your will alone next to his, and you know that even should you be robbed of form and body, you and him would still be _one._

But you are astride him, upon the shrine of Dumat, and there is no image more fitting. You feel the ridges of lyrium against your bare flesh, and all you do is sigh contentedly and kiss him again.

You are filled with him soon - you feel every ridge of red lyrium slip past and into you as you are joined, and your head falls back in bliss. His clawed hands find your hips, and set a rhythm to your joining.  
This joining of flesh is a masquerade, a symbolic thing, really, for past the confines of the Fade you feel his spirit and yours become one, joined together in rapture and _that_ is what really matters. This blasphemy of flesh atop the shrine of Dumat is merely a representation.  
So you let your head fall back and with a smile you let Corypheus fill you, so perfectly, so fully, over and over again. The growl past his lips is your name - _your name_ \- as the red haze of his peak floods you, and you join him in his rapture, taking him into yourself in perfect bliss.  
He opens his eyes, takes his hand from your hip where it left long, red gashes, and runs a knuckle of a clawed finger down your cheek. He is looking at your eyes - and he _sees_ you - with so, so much tenderness and love as you never thought a monster capable of feeling.

But he is not a monster; he is your beloved, your mate, your rapture, half of your soul. Your thighs are stained red, glistening with lyrium.  
You wake up, gasping for breath.  
The long red marks are there on your hips; your sheets are stained with the faintest glittering of crystal red.


End file.
